Symphony
by larks-landing
Summary: Here's the thing about Chorus. (written before episode 5)


Disclaimer: The italicized bits are quotes pulled from RVB. Not mine at all. Red vs Blue is also not mine at all.

A/N: Also, I borrowed the quick name – Gunny – from another writer. If they see this and are offended by it, please let me know, and I will change it as soon as possible! And yes, this is my first foray into this fandom, fic-wise. Rip this apart, please.

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**symphony**

**i.**

Here's the thing about Chorus: this – this revolution, this uprising, this _civil war_ – it's a long time coming. It's been boiling in the underbelly of Chorus' cities, festering, since the framework for those cities was laid.

Here's another thing about Chorus: it was settled, initially, as a financial investment. Sangheili swords and Jiralhanae guns littered the earth, spelling dollar signs on the other end of the universe. But see, the problem is – Chorus is a border planet, precariously orbiting the space between our end of the universe and theirs. It's seen a lot of shit, and it's scarred, it's bullet-ridden – it's angry.

This is why that's all important: Chorus has only ever known violence. Human greed. Bloodshed is a means to an end, and on Chorus, it is the only means there is. There's a reason the New Republic, primarily, is a fucking army. Chorus doesn't have a population, she has a military; she has _soldiers_.

This is why there's a saying here on Chorus – _bloody business, life._

**ii.**

_Everyone has their price. Everyone has their price – their price – their price – Everyone has –_

A gun. The New Republic gives each kid a gun – scratched barrel, gives a screech when fired – and a clip of ammo. It's up to them how they spend it.

They also get a suit of armour, blinding whites of the Federation painted over to a sedate brown-grey. Kimball declares the accents green – blends in easier than fucking _white._

Vanessa Kimball's price: your stories.

The whole army knows that Commander Kimball's a Scheherazade dressed up in power armour, a Rumpelstiltskin for the new age – spins gold from straw, cadence, and vowels.

But Vanessa Kimball doesn't want your firstborn child. That's not her price. You get the gold, the new kingdom, if you point your gun where she tells you to and shoot.

Kimball's price: your life.

_Pay up._

**iii.**

_It's all very patriotic. It's all very – It's –_

Fucking tragic that this army is half made up of kids.

Katie Jensen stands outside their gate for four fucking hours before a sentry spots her and the ragged duffel across her thin shoulders. She's got an angry welt on her left cheek and a stolen Fed-grade rifle under her arm.

Most of Kimball's recruits look like her when they first show up. Some are on the run from something, others are tired of running. No matter the reason, every tired, thin Chorus-born kid – soldier, in all honesty – shows up hungry for a fight, hungry for _better._

Jensen is one face lost in the masses. She only stands out for that sentry – Bitters – because they know each other later.

He figures three things. Three important things, he knows later. Jensen is not eighteen, no matter what she'll tell Kimball, and she has to be from the inner cities. There's a look to inner city kids – there are hollows in their cheeks, demons in their eyes, and hell on their heels. Also, she has lisp and a terminal case of optimism – both of which throw people off from the latter.

Bitters doesn't claim to know what she – and the rest of them – went through. He's mid-districts. Saw enough in the military to turn his stomach and send him to Kimball, but he's not an inner city kid.

He looks away and goes back to cleaning his gun, continuing to ignore whatever shit Matthews has been going on about since he got to his post.

**iv.**

_I am so fucking awesome. I am so fucking awesome. I am so –_

Fucking boned. Rogers is so fucking boned; there's nothing he can do about the bomb, about the Feds at his back, about the fact that Jason is dead.

He spares a thought – a really quick one because he literally has _seconds_ – for Jason Cunningham. He thinks – brown hair, browner eyes, warm laugh. Friend.

He thinks, _dead_.

Rogers chafes against the white armour, the helmet, and knows he's lost, paid his price; he should've learned to diffuse a fucking bomb – the things they don't teach you in high school, yeah?

Idly, as the clock winds down, he hopes that, somehow, Palomo makes it.

**v.**

_Sorry, sorry, sorry –_

Jensen says, wringing her hands. Gunny looks up from her gun and is glad that her helmet hides an eye roll.

"I'm so sorry," Jensen says again. Gunny shakes her head, because it's not Jensen's fault. Of course it's not. Jensen is capable and kind, clever and eager, and it makes _sense _that Captain Simmons would make her lieutenant, choose her for an elite team.

"Jensen, you gotta stop," Gunny tells her, putting her hands on Jensen's shoulders. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. You earned it."

She imagines Jensen to be frowning, but Gunny might be projecting. "But _Gunny –"_

"No buts, LT. You've got the job and you fucking deserve it."

Gunny drums her hands on the sides of Jensen's helmet – an old tradition. She laughs a little, and Gunny joins in.

Later she collects some rocks and throws them as far as can, over the walls of the base and into the jungle. See, Gunny played volleyball in high school, and she was pretty, and now she's a soldier.

Now she wears her helmet more often than not and ignores Jensen's sad little faces at her curt replies around their captain. Gunny is a soldier. It wouldn't fucking kill Captain Simmons and the rest of them to treat her like one.

**vi.**

_Do you want the long answer or the short one – the long answer or the short – the long answer –_

Is that Felix is here for the cash, not for shits and giggles, not for liberty, justice, or whatever crap Kimball spouts. His previous employer mentioned Chorus offhandedly, shaking his head at the poor suckers, while he handed Felix his money.

"They – the rebels – they'll be dead before the year is out," the guy said.

Felix considers it fucking _serendipitous_ when he gets a coded call a few days later from a woman called Kimball, demanding his services.

"Oh, I've heard about you," Felix says.

"Good things, I hope," Kimball deadpans.

"But of course. What can I do for you?"

She clears her throat. "Your job. We need some – extra firepower. People say that you've got experience with Locus."

Felix's fingers spasm a little on the steering wheel of his ship, but not much. Not much _at all_. "We've met, yes," he says.

Kimball is silent, for a moment. Felix watches a meteor glide by. "Look," she snaps. "He hasn't killed you yet, and he's killing us, so what is it going to take for you to get your ass to Chorus."

He rattles off a sum.

"Not happening," she says bluntly. Felix moves to hang up, because this has just been a _wild ride_, but if there's no pay check, Felix is _gone_.

"Hm," he says, instead.

"How do you feel about alien tech?"

Felix sees dollar signs.

"Tell me more," he says, and he charts a course for Chorus. Within his first month there, he runs into Locus twice and escapes, as always, but the second time – the second time. Some kid throws a knife, and goddamn is this kid _lucky_, it lodges itself in the chink between Locus' chest plate and shoulder pads. He elbows the kid in the side later, as thanks, but that's all.

No warm fuzzies, because that is both unprofessional and really, really dumb. No, Felix gets this – he helps the Republic, and its soldiers help him. Win-win, really.

So, short answer: this isn't his planet. Even if it were, he wouldn't give a shit. You can't exactly _own _a planet, so what's the point? Still, he's getting paid, and really – alien tech and his life. Not a bad deal.

**vii.**

So here's the thing about Chorus: it's already burning. It's marked for collapse like all the other border planets.

This is why that's wrong: Chorus has its soldiers, its chess pieces, and guess what. The other side – the small, hungry side – has a wicked queen.

This is why there's a saying here on Chorus – _bloody business, life._ It's said with laughter, looking down at a broken gun, and it's said with weight, heads bent at another set of mangled armour.

And this, finally, is why all this is really fucking important: change is the bloodiest business of all.

**end.**


End file.
